I

I was born in the fall of the summer of love,
in the season of the freeze-up moon.

I took my way of movin' from the Northwest wind
& the slow spiral fire of the tree's lost leaves.

I was raised on the stories that the rivers told me.
I was weaned from the breast w/ my first draught of poetry.

I spin my yarns & I tell my tales,
the taller the truer, the truer the better.

I say my stories & I sing my songs,
pass my poems 'round.

My words are given by the wind & the river,
the cracklin' fire & the furrowed field.

Cycles sing through me, the earth speaks to me
I speak what I know to them as will hear.

This is the rhythm, the rhythm of yr speech,
the cadence of the songs yr singin'.

In a circle of stones I stand
to bring yr words to life.